


Everything You've Come To Expect

by fromtheclouds



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: And I'm not even ashamed to say it, Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Former Lovers - Freeform, I'm literally Jake Gyllenhaal's whore, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Reader-Insert, Romance, Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie), Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie) Spoilers, Spoilers, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-07-28 06:40:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20059672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromtheclouds/pseuds/fromtheclouds
Summary: A former employee of Stark Industries hides in solitude from her past, until she is forced to confront it years later. After all the time away, she realizes still hasn’t recovered from her heartbreak. (Post FFH)





	1. Chapter 1

The nights were peaceful. Silent. In the middle of the wilderness, she could make out all the constellations, scattered across the sky like jewels in a display case. Every star was visible out here, she’d never been able to see them amongst the light-polluted sky of the city. And she was completely alone. This was how it was supposed to be.

So when she was curled up on her couch with a book, a fire burning in her hearth only a few feet away, eyelids heavy as she dozed off, the knock on the door startled her. Of course, she wasn’t completely alone. A mile down the road was her closest neighbor, and she occasionally had visitors. But she was far from her past, that was what mattered.

She approached the door with caution, and contemplated retrieving the old pistol she owned, just to be safe. But, she knew she was just being paranoid. After all, she’d managed several years of safety. Anyone still searching for her had given up by now. Right?

So when she opened the door, and saw the face of a man absent from her life for what felt like ages, she almost instinctively slammed it back in his face. But he reached out, stopping her.

“Wait, Y/N please,” he said. “Please, I can explain,” his hand gripped the end of the door, eyes pleading, voice cracking in desperation.

Questions spun through her mind, a million emotions stormed inside of her, and she decided to dwell on anger, annoyance. She couldn’t betray herself and allow anything else. “What do you want, Quentin?” she asked.

“Five minutes, please,” he said. “That’s all I ask, and if you want to send me away, you can.”

Her chest was heaving, she wasn’t expecting to see him ever again. It took a few breaths before she made her decision, even if she knew it wasn’t the smartest. With one hand, she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and sighed. “Fine. Five minutes.”

Opening the door a foot or two wider, she jerked her head and he muttered apologies as he scurried past. She took a sweeping view of her front yard, satisfied when she could make out no other figures in the darkness, and finally turned to focus on Quentin.

What she hadn’t seen as he stood on the dim porch was apparent now. Face riddled with scratches and blood, hair unkempt, eyes bloodshot, all areas of his exposed skin now covered in bruises and marks. And despite all this, he was still horribly handsome.

“I got into some trouble,” his mouth twisted in a half smile, which disappeared quickly as she crossed her arms.

“Clearly,” she said. “And at whose expense?”

“No one’s hurt. I promise.” He shook his head. “I need your help, Y/N.”

Over the years, she’d made a point to avoid the news in general, but particularly anything involving Quentin. It was too painful. To her relief, she’d never heard much about him anyways. But based on how he looked right now, he clearly was up to something. No good, she suspected.

“Sit down,” she instructed, eyeing the bruise forming at the corner of his eye. She was still weary, and could hear it in her voice. “Let me get you something to drink, we’ll clean you up a little bit.”

She cursed under her breath the moment she entered the kitchen. What was she thinking, letting him into her home like this? Where was her resolve? She’d thought after all these years she’d built up a resistance to not become a complete idiot if he’d ever come back into her life, but she hadn’t expected him to show up looking like a kicked puppy, defeated and tired. All she wanted to do was comfort him. And she was angry with herself for being so empathetic, so desperate.

When she returned to the living room with a cup of tea, first aid kit and an icepack, Quentin was walking around the perimeter of her living room, taking in the minimal decorations, peering out her front window. The cabin was small, and rundown when she’d first bought it, but she’d worked hard renovating it over the years, until it finally felt like a home. She cleared her throat and he jumped with a start, closing the curtain that looked out to her front yard, and giving her a weak smile.

“I made you tea,” she said flatly.

Quentin approached her with some hesitance, until she finally sat down across from him on the couch. Her hands tangled together for a brief moment in her lap, rubbing the base of her ring finger absentmindedly. She eyed him carefully, every detail and fine line of his visage. Not much had changed, though his features may have become a bit more defined. Full lips she once drank from with unbridled fervor, deep blue eyes that had first captured her own in stolen glances at one another across the lab. It was still him.

Then something occurred to her. Without a second thought, she reached out, pressed her hand to the center of his chest, and felt him, warm and solid under her touch. “So it’s really you,” she said. “You’re not playing tricks on me.”

Quentin swallowed hard, his hand grasping hers as she moved to pull away. His touch was firm and steady, though his palms were rough. “I’d never do that. Not to you.”

The technology she’d helped him create, what had caused all this in the first place. He’d never used it to take advantage of her, to trick her. If anything. His first experiments had simulated sunsets on a Carribean beach, the quiet solitude of a moss-covered forest, and rolling, green hills covered with flowers. Anything he thought was romantic that he could dream up, he took her there. And she knew, before she left, that he didn’t have the best intentions, but he was right about that. He’d never used it to manipulate her.

And she wasn’t sure if it was better that he was really here or not, his hand wrapped around hers, his fingers now threading through the spaces in between her own. If he pulled her closer, she wasn’t sure she could resist him.

_This isn’t the man you fell in love with._ She forced herself to remember. After they’d gotten fired from Stark Industries, he’d changed. He was distant, vengeful. It was a slow change, slow enough that it took her awhile to realize what his intentions where. Ultimately, he’d broken her heart. He’d hurt her. And she ran.

Y/N looked down at their intertwined hands, frowning when she saw the golden wedding band on his ring finger. Recoiling in disgust, she pulled back, released him. Quentin removed the offending object as she opened her mouth to object. “It’s not real,” he said. “I promise you, it was all a part of the plan, I forgot to take it off.”

Studying him carefully, Y/N narrowed her eyes. His hand had come to rest on her shoulder, he was leaning forward, closer to her than she wanted for ideal focus. She knew him well enough to know that he wasn’t lying. He’d always been a bad liar. Well, convincing to others, but never to her. “It’s not like it matters, anyways,” she stated bluntly.

Quentin’s jaw clenched at her words, and Y/N was startled by how good it felt to see him hurt, even if it was just for a brief moment. Because within the next few seconds, she was lifting the icepack to the side of his face, gingerly pressing it against his eye, placing his hand over top it. “Keep that there.”

She didn’t want to ask questions, despite how quickly they were firing through her brain. So she worked in silence, cleaning the cuts and bruises on his face and body. It was clear he was tired. He hunched over slightly, undereyes puffy and eyelids drooping, even though he kept a steady gaze on her as she worked.

“Well,” she said, once she was finished. “We have a lot of talking to do, but I’d rather do it after a full night’s sleep. You can stay in my spare bedroom.”

“Are you sure?”

“No,” she answered. “But you need rest.”

Quentin rose from the couch alongside her, followed her down the hall to a linen cabinet, where she retrieved a couple towels and some oversized clothes that would likely fit him. “Take a shower, go to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Quentin nodded as she gestured to the spare room, which he entered, hesitantly moving to close the door behind him. When she turned her back, she was surprised to feel a hand clasp gingerly around her upper arm. “Y/N,” he said. “Thank you.”

Turning her head, she looked at him over her shoulder. He was expectant, waiting. “You’re welcome,” she muttered.

“It’s….it’s really good to see you,” he said, hesitant. He was looking at her again, his eyes warm and insistent. And she couldn’t tell if he was manipulating her, or being honest. Somehow, sincerity would be worse, she thought. She was angry.

But she was mostly frustrated with herself. Because the easiest thing to do would be pitch herself into his arms, nuzzle her face in his neck, let him tell her it would all be okay. Why was that easier than pretending she didn’t care? To act cold? It was delusional. She’d so desperately wanted things to work between them, she had her whole future planned out with him. And it was pulled from underneath her. And all these years had apparently done nothing to quelm how badly she still believed things would work out.

* * *

Quentin stared at the door long after she’d closed it. There was a solid chance he wasn’t doing the right thing. But despite her cold, he knew he couldn’t be vulnerable, or at home with anyone else. Though he wasn’t quite ready for everything that was associated with seeing her again.

She’d left him suddenly. With almost no explanation. And he had been angry, for a long time. But now he was beginning to think he hadn’t understood before. Maybe it had been harder to cut herself away than she’d made it seem. Tonight, she’d appeared conflicted. And she was still beautiful as ever. And sweet as ever, despite her clear reservations.

He needed a place to regroup, rethink. Coming here was probably not the solution. If anything, it only complicated his current situation. But now, he wasn’t sure if he could take himself away. After all these years, maybe he deserved to be selfish.


	2. Chapter 2

Quentin must have been exhausted. That was the only explanation, as it was 9:45am and Y/N had yet to hear him stir. He had always had a strict routine - early to bed, early to rise. He’d plan his day out ahead of time down, writing schedules on pieces of paper that ended up scattered around their apartment. Organized chaos. She had been the only one who could get him to break from his customs, only after reams of convincing.**  
**

As the clock crept closer and closer to 10 a.m., and she had yet to hear him stir, it dawned on her that whatever had happened last night couldn’t have been an act. If he was really so worn down he was letting himself sleep in, maybe whatever he’d come from had been more serious than she’d thought, not a dramatization of a desperate plea for attention.

On the other hand, she’d tossed and turned all night. She couldn’t find out what was more unsettling - that the man she’d spent several years of her life with had showed up on her doorstep without warning, or that he was now sleeping only meters down the hallway in her guest bedroom. It was probably both. The whole situation was confusing, and she’d been awarded very few answers. Knowing Quentin, he’d probably figured out some way to manipulate the truth, so looking online wasn’t going to help. And some small, immature part of her wanted to know absolutely nothing. How comforting the idea of ignorance was.

She stared out at her backyard, curling up in the deck chair as she finished off the mug of coffee she’d been nursing, her only hope to function that day. Her mind was still spinning as she gazed absentmindedly at the forest in her backyard, trees packed so thick you could hardly see between them, the ground bedded with fallen branches, moss, and brush. Birds sang, insects chirped. It was the picture of peace, solitude. And yet, she couldn’t seem to find an echo of it within herself.

Leaving the coffee pot on for Quentin, she laced up boots over her jeans, and pulled a flannel on to keep the morning chill at bay. When she stepped onto her front porch, she stared at the winding dirt road that snaked through the woods into town, wearily eyeing a beat-up blue car that served as an explanation for how Quentin had gotten here.

It wasn’t until she’d made it about a mile into her hike that the full force of every emotion she’d been feeling since his arrival hit her, the weight of it knocking into her chest and squeezing so tight she could hardly breathe. Staggering sideways, she steadied herself against a sequoia, it’s solid trunk and elephantine branches hanging overhead provided some sort of momentary stability. But she was still reeling.

Memories had been flooding her conscious since their eyes had first locked the evening before. Eating takeout on the floor of his apartment after she’d had a bad day at work. His cheek pressed against hers as they swayed along to a slow symphony, the night she’d foolishly spilled her feelings for him after too many flutes of champagne. Her back pressed against the wall of a secluded hallway, pinned there by his hips, his stubble on her neck. Shuddering, her fingers clenched into fists, bark from the tree scraping off amid the friction. What did she owe him, after everything? There was a time when it was easy to believe it was _nothing_.

Clearing her throat, she straightened up, she couldn’t allow this to tear her apart. She was better than this. Taking in a deep breath, she tried her hardest to force air through her lungs and steady her heart rate. Glancing to her side, she took a moment to appreciate the view, in front of her, where the path dropped off and spilled into a shallow valley of trees, a babbling brook curling through the bottom.

After spending so much time outside the past few years, she should have noticed the birds around her silencing, scattering, twigs snapping, the shift of rocks underfoot. It was too late when she realized she was no longer alone.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Quentin was standing a few feet back, arms hanging limply at his sides, the space between them measured, certainly …testing his luck. He was still dressed in the clothes she’d given him the night before, hair looking a little mussed from sleep. The shiner on his left eye was much more prominent it had been the evening before, a rainbow of purple, black, and yellow. He still managed to look so ruggedly handsome, but she was sure he already knew that. She could only guess how long he’d been following her, but she hoped he didn’t witness her meltdown only minutes ago.

“It looks like you already have,” she answered, and rolled her shoulders back.

The sarcastic response that should have been his was never spoken. Instead his eyes remained on hers, pleading. Reluctantly, she gestured for him to follow.

He fell into step beside her and they walked in silence. She was thankful for that, as she was still trying to work through what she needed to know. Some things, she decided, were better left unsaid.

The climax of the hike was the view over the vast valley where she lived, any signs of humanity below covered by the towering evergreens. It was breathtaking, vast, open. Pictures, she had found, could never do it justice. And as much as she had tried to commit it to memory, it was better to see it in person.

“Well,” she heard Quentin mumble from beside her. She turned to look at him as he took in the view, thick eyelashes, ski-sloped nose, and sharp jawline covered by stubble. There were lines around his eyes, from years of smiling, that goofy, shit-eating grin that had first caught her attention when she’d begun working with him years ago.

He’d been indifferent when she’d first been assigned to the project, and she observed his standoffish, almost cruel aversion to the others on their team. But she recognized it wasn’t hostility. He was focused, passionate, dedicated. He was difficult to crack. She could have her fair share of partners, but some unknown force had drawn her to him. And after a spell, he revealed a sort of reluctant kindness, which ultimately blossomed into something else entirely. Seeing how it all played out, she wondered if she should have known better.

“This is everything you’ve always wanted,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” she answered. _Not quite everything._

When she turned her head back to the view, she instantly felt his eyes on her, burning with intense focus. “I hope you’re happy,” he said, voice delicate. It was clear to her he was trying to take her emotional temperature, gauge her mood, but she was done with the pleasantries. It was forced, fake, and Quentin of all people should have known better.

“Why did you come here, Quentin?” she asked, turning around. “Because I know it wasn’t for an ice pack and a good night of sleep.”

He considered her question for a moment, expressed relaxing. “I fucked up,” he confessed. “In more ways than one, and I-” he cleared his throat. “I needed a place to regroup, to….figure things out,” her eyes narrowed as he spoke. This frazzled, uneasy man was not the Quentin she’d known before she left.

“I’m assuming master plan didn’t work out?” she asked, crossing her arms.

“I tried, okay?” he raised his voice slightly, enough to know she’d hit a nerve. His frustration wasn’t directed at her, but it didn’t matter. It was always someone else’s fault. Because Quentin could do no wrong. “And I was almost successful. But I’m not finished-”

Y/N took two steps forward to close the gap between them. “What did you do, Quentin? What details have you conveniently left out of the story? Whose blood is on your hands?” A harsh gush of wind accompanied her movement, her hair falling in her eyes.

“No one’s!” he insisted, raising his hands. “And I can explain everything. But no one died, okay?”

“So what do you want?” she asked. “You think you can just show up on my doorstep and have a place to stay?” all the words she’d been longing to say were pouring out, and she couldn’t seem to stop them. “So I can help with whatever delusional idea you’ve conjured up to save yourself? That’s why I left you in the first place. You’re obsessed. And now that you’ve failed, you come back like everything is supposed to be okay? And I’m supposed to let you back in?”

“Listen to me!” he shouted, cutting her off, and she clearly the fire in his eyes. It had always been there, but it burned differently after Tony had fired him. She staggered backwards, startled, and he immediately lowered his voice in response. “I fucked up. But I need help. I just need some time….a place to stay. I’m in danger, and I can’t show my face in public until I can figure out what to do next. I have no other options.”

The next part was coughed up reluctantly, a defeated admission.

“You’re all I have left.”

* * *

Quentin could see the conflict in her eyes as she took in his request, he’d always been able to read her. He was a master manipulator, and he’d taken pride in it, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to hurt Y/N. Over the years, the line between good and evil had blurred considerably, but he had always known where to draw it when it came to her. That had been easy. In part because she’d never done anything to deserve it. But now, it was as though she was testing him.

It almost angered him, that he was unable to lie to her with the same ease he had to lied to others. She probably knew it, too. How clever she was.

She withheld her answer. Instead, she turned away to look at the horizon. He didn’t like this cold, indifferent version of the woman he’d once loved. In his life, there were several things he’d thought he’d never find, one of them being comfort. But she had given it so freely to him, and now she was holding it over his head when he needed it most.

Her hair splayed in every direction as she took in the view beyond. Quentin took a moment to acknowledge how beautiful she looked, even in her clear frustration.

He had considered, in their time apart, finding someone else to fill the space she’d left in his life. Of course, he was too busy for anything serious. But the rendezvous he’d had left him with a bad taste in his mouth. It made him furious, that he’d allowed her to crack his resolve, to open a space in his life that had always been closed, and then she’d left it empty, vacant.

Quentin lowered his voice in a final, desperate plea. “Honey, please. I’ll tell you everything.”

“I can tell when you’re lying,” she answered finally, but didn’t give him the courtesy of turning to face him. “So you’d better tell the truth.”

Her eyes lifted to lock with his, and he almost smiled when he recognized the blaze inside them, ferocious. Throwing his tricks right back in his face. He had to admire what she’d let rub off on her.

“And then, you can stay.”

Brushing past him, her shoulder grazed his. The olive branch had been extended. It would be enough….for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put out the first part without really having an idea of where this was going, so I don’t know how good this part will be. Next chapter things will get going, I promise, I’m thinking this might end up being 5-ish parts! I also would love to do some pre-FFH little fics about them, so let me know if there’s something in particular you’d like to see :)


	3. Chapter 3

In their years apart, Quentin’s plan had become more ambitious than she remembered. The consideration for human lives had dwindled. There was no longer a voice of reason, he’d lost his conscious, his morals had slipped. And no one had tried to stop him. His colleagues were fueled only by their bitterness.

Quentin had been honest, which she appreciated. And while she wanted, more than anything, to be disgusted by what he’d become, she wasn’t. It felt wrong. She knew that she should be outraged, but she couldn’t bring herself to be.

Y/N went about her day, as independently as she possibly could. She cooked an easy dinner, and was surprised when Quentin joined her at her breakfast nook for the meal.

Quentin had to be smart enough not to expect small talk while they ate, but even so, she felt obliged to reluctantly put aside the book she had been reading to glower at him across the table. It wasn’t until he spoke up that she even realized she was doing it, lost in thought.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

Snapped out of her thoughts, she met his inquisitive blue eyes, so piercing. He could see through her like no one else could. It had terrified her when they first met, and she sometimes wondered if that was why she’d grown to love him in the first place. It was easier to succumb to the vulnerability, the blissfulness of trust, than it was to resist him. Why not open up?

“I’m disappointed in you,” she said flatly.

Quentin’s expression twisted briefly into a nefarious thing, before he corrected himself. They had already had some variation of this conversation several times. But there was still conflict that had to be resolved. Quentin was desperate, he had no options, and she’d only seen him this defeated once before. He knew, just as she did, that he had no one else, nowhere else to go. So he’d have to listen, she just wondered when he’d finally hear her..

“You’ve already made that very obvious,” was all Quentin said, but he set down his fork, wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin, and crossed his arms as he sat back. There was something very domestic about the way he looked in the flannel shirt she’d let him borrow, sitting at the small table, visibly upset, like they were arguing about the electric bill and not about the lives of thousands of people he’d put at risk. “I won’t be here long, I’ll figure out what I need to do next and I’ll leave you alone.”

“That’s the issue,” she leaned forward. “You’re oblivious to what you’ve done wrong. You’re only here because you’ve failed. You’re looking for another way to make this work, when you’ve already tried and it’s gotten you nowhere,” the angry bite that slipped into her tone towards the end hadn’t been intentional.

Quentin’s hand clenched into a fist. “Thanks for reminding me.”

It was all she could do not to roll her eyes. But deep within her, she was dismal. Was she really trying to convince him that what he’d done was wrong? Or was she just trying to prove to herself that he was capable of the kindness she swore she’d known. Somehow, the thought that she could love such an unfeeling, remorseless man sent buckshot through her stomach. Her voice lowered. “You know, not everything is about revenge.”

Quentin’s expression remained neutral, but his fist loosened, flattened so his palm was flush against the tabletop. “What was I supposed to do?”

Carefully, she mulled over her next words. “I know you think that you’re supposed to leave this legacy. Couldn’t you have just lived your life, found another way to be happy?”

“I’m not a simple man, Y/N,” he crossed his arms. “I wasn’t going to roll over and get a fucking job at a university.”

She flinched at his words, a brief flash of a memory, her head bent over her kitchen table grading lab reports while Quentin worked in the office down the hall from her until the early hours of the morning. The sacrifices she’d made for him had only led to their demise. Her next words bubbled up in time with her anger and were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “I’m sure that would have been enough for you if you weren’t still hung up on meeting your parents expectations.”

Quentin moved to stand from the table, his chair screeching across the hardwood floor. He moved swiftly, but she was faster, anticipating his actions. “No.” she said firmly, her palm facing him. “I’m the one who’s leaving.”

Her heel squeaked against the floor, and she turned without sparing him a second glance. She heard Quentin call her name, once, twice, and it wasn’t until she was at the door pulling on her socks and shoes that he somehow wedged himself between her and the doorway. Instead of backing away, she stepped forward, her chest pressed against his. It was a mistake. He was warm, solid, so real in front of her that her anger sputtered out briefly before firing back at full force.“How the fuck did you find me here, anyways, Quentin? Hm?”

“It’d be better if you didn’t know,” Quentin’s eyes searched hers, and her brain was so clouded by her emotions she couldn’t tell if he was even being sincere.

“Give me a fucking break,” she hissed.

“Fine,” he snorted, voice raising. “You want to know the truth?”

Her silence was all the encouragement he needed. “I’ve known you’ve been here for years,” he confessed. “And fuck, it wasn’t easy to find you. You’re smart. I shouldn’t have been surprised.”

“Wh-Why?” she stuttered. Her nails, which she hadn’t realized had gotten long, dug so hard into the palms of her hands that she thought they might draw blood. But she was trying desperately to hold back the outburst threatening to emerge. But what she felt was no longer rage….it was something worse.

“You wanted to be alone,” he said. “But I had to know that you were okay.”

“I’m not this monster you’ve convinced yourself I am,” Quentin continued. “And I’m not a good man,” he added. Her eyes bore into his, she could have sworn there was something welling in his own. “I know that. But for you, I’ve always tried.”

Quentin’s hand had lifted, his thumb grazing along her upper arm, goosebumps trailing in their wake. Why would it have been so easy to lean forward against his chest and let out the choked sobs she was holding back? Maybe it was his proximity, or maybe it was because she’d somehow wanted this all along. She knew better.

Staggering backwards, she put as much distance between them as she needed, and Quentin’s hand fell to his side. She could still feel where he’d touched her, like it was singed onto her skin.

“Try for your own sake, not for me.”

Quentin stared at her, lost, hopeless. She thought of all the things he was capable of, good and bad, and wondered why he’d wasted so much time creating a catastrophe. He was a man of extremes, and hadn’t been able to find in the gray area where he’d turned wrong. She wondered if he ever would.

* * *

The apartment was dim, dark, which was strange considering that Quentin had told her he would be leaving work early. She almost expected to find him in the kitchen, preparing an original recipe that would no doubt be inedible – Quentin was one of the most intelligent, innovative people she’d ever met, but an irredeemably terrible cook. Instead, the kitchen was vacant, as was the rest of their shared home. And it was quiet, too. Maybe he’d fallen asleep.

Heading down the hallway to their bedroom, she paused when she noticed a sliver of light peeking out from underneath the door to Quentin’s office. She knocked once, and heard no response, so she figured he may have left the light on. For her own sake, she cracked the door open with the intention of flicking it off.

What she saw on the other side of the door left her speechless.

Quentin’s office had been destroyed. At first, she thought someone might have broken in – there was no way Quentin would allow the normally meticulously-organized space to ever look this way. Books were strewn about the floor, some of them with pages torn. Awards and relics that usually decorated his shelves had been toppled over. His desk had been wiped clean of his papers, prototypes, and experimental technology. A large glass mirror that sat in the corner of the room was cracked and shattered.

It was only when she looked in it’s reflection did she see Quentin sitting next to the door. Obscured by the fissures in the glass, his form was split into several distorted images.

Curled in an upright fetal position, his back against a bookshelf, staring into space, she had to check twice to be sure it was really him. One of his hands was curled loosely around the neck of a half-empty bottle of scotch. His hair hung in his eyes, his jawline prominent from the clench of his teeth, evident even underneath his light stubble.

Y/N shut the door behind herself and stepped towards him, careful to avoid the debris.

“Quen,” she murmured softly, he hadn’t so much as shifted his eyes towards her since she walked in the room. Before she could kneel down next to him she smelt the booze. Briefly, she wondered how much of the bottle was gone before he’d started drinking, or if he’d done the damage all by himself in one sitting.

“Quentin,” she said his name again, firmly this time, and his head snapped up, his eyes darting towards her once, wide with whites flashing like a rabid animal, spooked. It was almost as if she’d woken him from a trance.

“Hey,” he said, a forced smile making its way on his visage. Still, he didn’t turn his head to afford her any eye contact.

“What’s going on?” she asked wearily. She’d seen him angry before, and while he’d never directed it at her, it was quite a fearsome thing to witness. There was no telling where his head was at, especially considering that she’d never seen him capable of the destruction that surrounded them.

Quentin didn’t answer right away, his brows furrowed together and his mouth turned down at the corners. “Stark fired me,” his said, eventually, flatly.

“What?” Her first reaction was shock. Surprise. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Quentin had been one of Tony’s most valued workers, and on his own, renowned as one of the greater tech innovators of this decade. All the biggest names in the industry had approached him with jobs at one point or another. But working for SI had been his dream career. They’d offered him the creative freedom and funds to pursue his own projects, the only tradeoff was the rights to anything he’d created. That hadn’t concerned him.

“He’s using my tech for self-therapy,” he said, voice void of any emotion. “And he fired me. It’s over.”

“Oh, honey,” she said, carefully pushing his hair out of his eyes. In the few months before he planned to unveil his tech, he barely had been taking care of himself, and hadn’t found time for a haircut. He had let it grow long, slicking it back from his face.

She intercepted the bottle of alcohol as he lifted it to his lips, catching a glimpse of raw, bloodied knuckles as she pried it out of his hand. He offered little-to-no resistance. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

He shook his head. “I worked so hard, I sacrificed so much for this. He said I was unstable. But he could never understand. It was my life’s work, and now it belongs to him, and I have nothing-” Quentin’s voice cracked with the last word, his jaw clenching in frustration along with his fists.

Y/N didn’t answer. She sat the bottle on her opposite side and pulled him into her arms. Quentin leaned forward, a shattered, broken man, and buried his face in her neck. What did you say to the person you loved when they lost everything? She didn’t know.

“Goddamnit,” he mumbled, she felt damp eyes press into the exposed skin of her shoulder. “Fuck.” Her lips grazed his forehead. His hands tightened desperately around her, like she was the last piece of his life that remained.

In her experience with him, Quentin didn’t cry. He never had. And she wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to his frustration as he lost his composure. She heard him take in a shaky breath, felt hot tears stain her shirt. His large hand fisted the fabric that covered her waist, pulling her even closer.

Y/N lost track of time. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, her hands wandering, carding through his hair, massaging the stiff muscles in his neck and shoulders. Quentin was not one to seek comfort, she knew he preferred to suffer alone. It terrified her. She’d never seen him so helpless. Hell, he was the one who usually consoled her when she came home weepy after a bad day at work. This was rock bottom. He was utterly lost. And she knew there wasn’t anything she could do to help him.

Pulling away finally, she held his face in her hands, carefully swiped away his tears. His piercing blue eyes were bloodshot and puffy, void of their steady, determined fix. “Come on, we’re getting out out of here,” she said sternly. “How about you take a shower, I’ll make you some tea, and we can talk some more.”

Quentin nodded, and she helped him up from the floor. He leaned on her heavily, unsteady and warm from the Scotch, and they made their way to their bedroom, where he sat on the edge of the bed as she ran the water and handed him a fresh towel from the linen closet.

Once he was in the shower, she made her way down the hallway, shutting off the lights to his office and closing the door. She’d worry about the mess later, but didn’t think he needed the reminder in case he came down the hallway anytime soon. Pulling a box of cinnamon spice tea out of their cupboard, she waited for the water to heat up and put her head in her hands.

The question of her own future at SI was now hanging over her head. Quentin had been nothing but a dedicated, focused, and hard-working employee. Even before they’d started dating, there’d been nights she’d had to drag him out of his lab when she’d found him asleep, sitting upright at his desk. So why would Tony turn on him so quickly? It seemed so unlike him. And how long would it be until he turned on her? Did she even have a future at the place she had come to consider her second home? It wasn’t hard to see why Quentin was so devastated.

The teakettle began to whine and she quickly turned off the burner, prepping two mugs of cinnamon spice tea, turning down the lights and heading back to their bedroom.

The lights were off an Quentin was already in bed, under the covers, his breathing light and regular, the towel from his shower discarded on the floor next to his side of the mattress. She thought maybe he’d fallen asleep, but when she carefully placed the mug on his bedside table, he stirred, rolling onto his back and looking up at her hazily.

“Are you going to leave me?” he asked, a lost, terrified child in his eyes.

“What?” she asked incredulously, the question knocking her off guard. “Why would you ask me that?” she tilted her head.

“I always thought I was good enough,” he said. “But here I am. Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I’m not.”

There had been obvious evidence of Quentin’s initial anger….but that was something she could handle. This….this was something else entirely. She didn’t recognize the man in front of her, a tornado of self-doubt and desolation. Burning inside of her was something she didn’t recognize….rage, hatred, as she watched him pick himself apart. And she knew exactly who was responsible for it.

“That’s not going to happen,” she sat down next to him, and his eyes followed her. Y/N tried her hardest to keep her own emotions from bubbling over, opting instead for some dry humor. “My standards are already too high.”

The faint hint of a smile, a real smile, played at the corner of Quentin’s mouth.

“I understand you have a lot to worry about. But me leaving is not one of them.” Y/N smirked. Quentin pulled her closer, chuckling gently, one hand pulling back the covers to make room, and she curled up next to him, despite the fact that she was still fully dressed in her work clothes. Settling in close, she propped her head on her elbow to look down at him. His hair was still damp from the shower, a few stray droplets of water clung to his bare chest, and she felt a familiar flutter in her stomach as she took in his form, illuminated by the light peeking through the slats of their curtains.

“Thanks, honey.”

“You’re welcome, honey,” she wrinkled her nose playfully, splaying her palm in the middle of his chest.

Quentin’s hand rose to clasp around hers as the smile faded from his face, replaced once more by the dead stare he’d had when she’d first found him that evening. This time, however, it wasn’t so forlorn. His fingers toyed with the ornate band on her ring finger, like he was checking to make sure it was still there.

“What am I gonna do?” he asked after a long beat of silence.

“You’ll figure it out,” she murmured softly, and when he finally stopped fiddling with the ring he’d bought her, she lifted her hand to trace along his cheekbone. “You’re good at that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hese two love to argue. And I love to write them arguing. But it definitely wasn’t always that way. And Quentin may have a soft spot for a certain someone…. (I also watched Prisoners for the first time this weekend and holy shit, now I have all kinds of inspiration to maybe even write for that). I hope you enjoy, I realize my characterization of Quentin might be off, but my interpretation of him is a little more forgiving than most…let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, this isnt probably canonically accurate, but I’m convinced Quentin is still alive. Not sure how many parts this will be, but I'm having fun writing it, so.....let me know what you think. Also, his characterization might be a little off, but I'm still trying to figure it out. This is also on tumblr, and you can find me @from-the-clouds.


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